


I Want to Be Just Like Him

by DarcyFarrow



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Fear of Abandonment, Foster Parent Remarries, Vince and Howard as kids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:02:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24475441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarcyFarrow/pseuds/DarcyFarrow
Summary: Growing up as a foster child isn't easy, especially when your foster father acquires a new family.  Seven-year-old Vince struggles to secure his place in the Ferry household, but he's so different from Bryan that he worries he'll never fit in.  Fearing he'll be abandoned once again, Vince, along with his loyal friend Howard, seeks out his birth parents.
Relationships: Howard Moon & Vince Noir, Howard Moon/Vince Noir
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story connects with “Coronaboosh.” At least, I hope it does! By the way, an interesting coincidence: the real Bryan Ferry supports charities that aid foster children.

**MAY 4, 1981**  


"When I grow up I want to be just like him."  


"I don't! Want to be like my old man, I mean," Howard snorted. "He's well boring."   


"And kind of mean. A little," Vince hastily amended: it might do for a guy to gripe about his own father but it wasn't cool to insult another guy's.   


But Howard didn't seem to mind the faux pas, or maybe he wasn't really listening. He was too busy staring at his shoes and listing, in order of importance, all his objections to the idea of his father as a role model. Before he could get too far--they'd been down this road before, so Vince knew Howard had a tendency to get brain-stuck on this topic--Vince butted in. "Well, Bryan's way cool. He's a runny-sauce man, that's what the TV guy said. He can do, like, fifty-hundred things, like music and writing songs and painting and wearing clothes and dancing and--" Vince abruptly scowled--"and reading. He reads perfect, Howard." He poked at an abandoned anthill with a stick so he didn't have to look up at his buddy. "Not like me."  


"You'll get better, Vince, don't let it get you down." 

Vince shook his head. He wanted to say more--he needed to, to release all the frustration, anger, embarrassment, and a growing knot of fear that he'd fought back over the past six months since he started school. He wasn't book smart, that was what his housekeeper Bernice said; he was smart in a different way. But what Vince heard the clearest of her jumble of words was "different," and the tinge of pity attached to that word, like being different was like having the measles and everyone should stay away from you. Bryan had never used that word before: he said "unique," which made Vince feel like he had a gold-highlighted shadow trailing along behind him. 

But he was beginning to understand that sometimes it's possible to be two opposite things at the same time, and the way the teachers clicked their tongues at him and the other kids giggled when he was called on to read out loud in front of the class, maybe Bernice was more right than Bryan. 

"You already can play three whole songs." Howard changed the topic to make him feel better. Howard had a knack for giving a guy a compliment without it sounding like a compliment. Like it was just a fact. "And Miss Jenkins says you're the best drawer in Year Two." 

Vince allowed his spirits to be lifted by these observations. Besides, he had Bryan, the coolest parent in the entire neighborhood (well, not truly "parent," but just as good. Almost.) and Bryan would be home any minute. Six weeks and two months he'd been away, even to Japan and Rio; he called from every city just to say goodnight to Vince and make sure he brushed his teeth, and sometimes he put the other Roxy Music guys on the phone too. Vince liked it best when he got to talk to the other Brian; he made funny voices. So maybe Vince was different, but he had the coolest almost-dad and that was better. 

"Hey," Howard nudged him. "You and Bryan gonna come to my birthday tonight?" 

"'Course. We got you presents and everything. Bryan mailed yours back from Germany. He met Dizzy Gillespie there and got his mouth thing--" He clamped a hand over his mouth. "Oops." 

"I don't mind you told me. I'm not a surprise kind of man. Be at mine at six, right? Mum wants you and Bryan to eat with us." Us being Howard's parents and twin sisters, Vince understood; none of the other kids from school would be there. Suddenly Howard leaped to his feet and pointed down the street. "Hey, is that him?" 

"Bryan!" Somehow Vince got from a sitting position to a full run in a single motion. He was in the middle of the street and waving at the approaching taxi before he remembered he wasn't supposed to cross the street. He backed up to the sidewalk but kept on waving, absolutely certain that his waving would make the cabbie drive faster. As the vehicle rolled up to the curb, Vince's hand darted out to grab the passenger door handle, then he jerked it back, remembering that was another dangerous thing he wasn't supposed to do. Even after six months, living in the city was still hard to get used to. 

As soon as the cab came to a halt, the passenger door swung open and before he had a chance to breathe, Vince was being swept up into long arms. "Monkey!" Smothered in a hug. "You were waiting for me!" 

"I'll always be waiting for you," Vince said very seriously before hiding his face in Bryan's sport coat. They were like that a long time until the cabbie set two suitcases and a garment bag onto the sidewalk. Then Bryan had to lower Vince to the ground to dig some money out of his jacket for the cabbie. "Help me with my luggage, boys?" 

"Sure!" Howard dashed forward, claiming one of the rolled cases; Vince yanked on the other. "Are you coming to my birthday tonight, Mr. Ferry?" 

"Wouldn't miss it. Thank you for the invitation, Howard." It would be a short party, the boys understood; Bryan always came home tired. Besides, truth be told, the Moons weren't the best party throwers. 

But Bryan would be there, that's what mattered. As promised, he was home. \---  


Vince couldn't stop jabbering, even though Mr. and Mrs. Moon kept giving him odd looks and Howard kicked him under the table (the twins were too busy peppering Bryan with questions to notice). Vince didn't know why he got that way when he was excited; he didn't know why he did half the things he did. Even now, as nonsense stuff about a football match he'd seen on telly spewed out of his mouth (despite the chunk of birthday cake in it), Vince tried to stop himself but couldn't. Need to be more like Howard, his brain nagged him, be like Howard, strong and silent. "An' then this guy went like this and the ball bounced off his knee and another guy caught it on his knee and Bryan, Bryan, Bryan, you shoulda seed it, it were well good! He kicked it into the net and the guy couldn't catch it and he fell splat on his face Bryan." At least he wasn't tugging on Bryan's sleeve like he did when he was little. 

"Yes, Vince. And then what happened?" He could do that, Bryan could, bounce his attention between the twins, Mr. and Mrs., and Vince at the same time and make each one feel important to him; years of practice at press conferences, he said once. 

Vince was so preoccupied with Bryan's focus on him that he lost his train of thought. "I forgot." He did that too, sometimes, around adults. He wanted to kick himself under the table or pull his hair. An adult's attention was too rare to risk losing. (Not that Bryan would stop listening to him). 

Mrs. Moon stood up, signaling an end to the meal. Vince knew that meant there was about a half-hour left in the visit, as far as she was concerned: the opening of the presents in the lounge, a few minutes of polite conversation (the adults) and play on the floor (the boys--the twins would disappear somewhere mysterious. Vince never found out where.). "Well, shall we have our tea in the parlor, gentlemen?" Vince liked to watch her face whenever she asked this; it made her feel in charge, he realized, and she didn't get that feeling too often. 

The boys cheered and galloped into the lounge. The men picked up their cups and saucers and trailed behind. Mr. Moon was charged with carrying out the presents: one from the girls together (bought not with their allowance but with money Mrs. Moon had set aside for this purpose), two from the parents (a plaything and a practical one, Mrs. Moon always said) and one each from--Vince wanted to think "the Ferrys," like he thought "the Moons," but that wasn't right, was it. 

He wondered why. 

Mrs. Moon had a certain order to the unwrapping, though, when it was Vince's birthday (Bryan didn't know exactly when Vince's birthday should be, so he picked the date that the ape Maisie had brought baby Vince to him, after the plane crash in the jungle) he liked to start with the biggest present. Howard unwrapped and thanked the giver, while Mrs. Moon complimented each gift, and then Mr. Moon collected the wrapping paper for the trash bin. When the boys were free to play, Howard leaned in to whisper, "Yours is the best one. Cheers, Vince." And Vince knew it was, because he'd made it himself (or, at least, drawn the picture on the cover): a pencil box featuring Mississip' Mitchell and his jazz trombone). 

"Bryan's is cool too." Howard's lips twitched (that was how Howard smiled). 

"Way cool," Vince admitted, because even he was impressed: it was the mouth thing from a trumpet that Dizzy Gillespie had used on his last tour; it still had the original spit in it, Bryan had whispered when Mrs. Moon wasn't looking). 

The boys played with the dump truck and ambulance that Howard had got as his gifts from his family (were Bryan and Bernice and Vince a family, though they didn't share a name? Bryan said so when he filled out the papers to register Vince for school. "My ward," he told the Head). Howard generally wasn't much interested in cars, but the stuff he was interested in wasn't much good for shared play, so his mother had been nudging him toward cars and game boards and Army men. 

Mrs. Moon and Bryan did most of the talking: he was kind of her boss because she worked for the record company and did paperwork for the band. Every so often Mr. Moon would give himself a little shake like he'd been asleep and contribute a question or comment, usually about a city Bryan mentioned (Mr. Moon liked to talk about buildings and rivers and stuff, because he taught about those things at the secondary school). 

Vince had wondered once why Mr. Moon seldom talked, and Bryan had explained, "That's a trait of Northern men: strong and silent. Mr. Moon and I understand each other; I'm a Northern man too. But I had to learn to chat and charm when I joined the band." 

"Am I a Northern man too?" Vince had so wanted the answer to be yes. 

Bryan had thought about his reply a long while. "You are Vince Noir, unique unto yourself, and I'm proud of you." Then he'd tucked Vince in, turned off the light and walked slowly out of the bedroom. 

When Mrs. Moon gathered up the tea cups, Bryan slid his sleeve up to glance at his watch and said, as he always did, "I see by the old clock on the wall, it's about that time." Vince found this funny every time: the Moons didn't have a wall clock in the lounge. Bryan stood and offered his hand to each Moon to shake, even Howard. "Happy birthday, Howard." 

Vince slipped his hand inside Bryan's as they crossed the lawn for home. Someday he'd be too old for hand holds, he supposed, but not today. \---  


Bryan didn't have to work for a few days, so after school, the boys played in Vince's romp room and sometimes, Bryan played with them. He liked board games. On Saturday Bryan took them into his music room in the back of the house. He let them--well, mostly Howard--browse his record collection and talked to them about his jazz favorites. While Vince spread the covers onto the carpet and studied the pictures, Bryan played a few records on his stereo and talked about how that music had been made. Howard bobbed his head as if he knew what Bryan was talking about (Vince would take the piss out of him later, but not too much, because Howard would get mad and go home). Vince found some lined paper in a drawer--he didn't like lines, but he felt too comfortable to run back to his room for proper drawing paper--and he lay on his belly on the floor, trying to reproduce Bix and Tram while the "jazz aficionados" talked. He didn't mind sharing Bryan with Howard, not yet: there was a whole week before Bryan had to go back to work. 

"Look, Bryan, look," Vince urged when he'd finished, and Bryan looked, really looked, and made compliments and asked questions and Vince felt smart. 

Then Bryan said, "I understand both of you boys would like to learn to play" and they nodded, and Howard said, "I want to be a musician" and Vince said, "I want to be in a band." So he led them to his keyboard and sat them on his bench on either side. "If you start with Middle C you can find your way." He pressed some keys and a bit of music came out. He took Vince's hand first and directed him how, and Vince played Middle C. Vince wasn't impressed really with the accomplishment, not like Howard was when it was his turn, but he liked having Bryan's hand on his. Bryan showed them more keys and said their names and what the keys did together (like a good football team, he said), and pretty soon, Howard was picking out "Mary Had a Little Lamb." Again, Vince wasn't much impressed--he heard people play much fancier songs all the time in this house--but Howard grinned like he'd just won the Ballon d'Or. Vince picked out half the song before he got kind of confused and climbed down to draw more pictures, KISS covers this time). 

Every now and then he'd glance back to see Howard, face fixed in stony concentration, conquer another chord and Bryan would pat his back. (Vince didn't mind. There wasn't much patting in the Moon house, not nearly enough, in Vince's opinion). Whenever he finished another picture he'd scramble to his feet and trot it over for Bryan's approval. He got kind of tired after a while and thought he'd like Bryan to kick a ball around with him, but Bryan never liked to interrupt another musician's performance, so Vince just sat on the carpet and watched them play "Little Lamb" over and over. After a while he thought it was time for tea and a sleepy, so he fetched Bernice and she brought the service down. 

"Ah. Yes. Well, Howard, mustn't overload. We've made good progress today." Bryan raised his tea cup in a salute and the boys did the same. "Perhaps you would come back tomorrow?" Vince knew this was a small test question to determine if Howard had the stick-to-it-iveness that Bryan said was vital to success. Howard didn't hesitate. "Yes, sir, thank you." (He could sound so grown up sometimes. He was two years older, Vince figured that was why). 

"Me too," Vince piped up.   
  


"Of course." Bryan hugged him. "Always."  
  


And Vince felt warm after that and after the tea, the compliments and the Snickerdoodles. So he couldn't help it; when Bryan tucked him in for his sleepy, he kissed him. Even if Howard had said men should shake hands.  
  


But on Sunday, the sun was shining so bright that it would be a tragedy not to play a little football, Vince thought, and he got a little impatient with the lessons (which now seemed more like Howard's lessons than the boys') and he said some mean things and Bryan made him apologize and sent him to his room. He cried; not that he hated being sent to his room; he had plenty of toys and even if he got bored with them he could stare out the window and see shapes and colors and stories would form in his head, sometimes powerful stories that got him lost for a while until he reminded himself they weren't real. He would speak them aloud then, if nobody else could hear, and that would fix them firmly in their world, leaving him in his. 

When his punishment was over he went back to the music room, just in time for lunch, but Bryan and Howard were talking about half-notes and measures and whatever, so Vince had to "Bryanbryanbryan" to get a word in. Which made Vince mad enough he almost didn't eat his dessert. 

Every day that week, Howard would come over after school for another lesson and every day, Vince would tell himself he'd concentrate so he could learn too, but the stack of drawings grew faster than the music lessons did. And every night, when Bryan tucked him in and said, "I love you, Monkey," Vince felt warm and sweet, but also mean. 

Bryan went back to work in the studio but he came home in the evening for dinner and the lessons continued. Vince couldn't tell for sure who he was mad at, but he knew he wasn't getting much attention in this arrangement and he drew mean pictures, Godzilla stomping on dump trucks and tigers eating keyboards. He didn't show these to Bryan. 

Another reason to be mad came when Bryan went to the school to have a talk with Vince's teacher. That night Bryan said it was time for a long talk, which Vince understood meant bad news, and though Bryan tried to be kind and encouraging and gave him plenty of hugs, Vince felt ashamed. "It's not your fault. I don't want you to ever feel bad about this. Or anything else that's unique about you. I'm different too. I couldn't get up on the stage and sing to twenty thousand people if I was an average guy." 

But Vince stopped listening after that word. "Different." It mattered only a little that Bryan said they were alike in this. "Different," Vince had come to learn since they came to the city, got you frowny faces on your homework. "Different" got you beat up when you walked home from school. And even if you could kick a football a hundred miles and you could draw a perfect dinosaur, different got you that sneering head toss from the kids who might have been your friends otherwise. And once stained with different, you couldn't wash it off, no matter how hard you smiled. 

So the next night, they stopped pretending Vince was learning music with Howard, and instead Francis, a guy from the university, came and gave Vince lessons on how to read when your brain is wired different. As much as he hated it, he had to admit, the special lessons helped. In a month he could read for fifteen minutes straight without getting a headache. In another month, he could read out loud when it was his turn in class and the kids forgot to snicker. (The bigger boys just yawned.). 

But still, when Bryan sat beside Howard on the keyboard bench, Vince wished he could be on the other side instead of in the lounge with Francis. Even if Francis did bring picture books about the jungle and space aliens. Even if music was well boring. And his mean mad boiled like eggs in water, just before the bubbles broke the surface. \---  


Then he got an idea. It came to him at school when the Head announced a new organization for the kids' mums. He didn't have a mum, of course, just a Bernice, but he knew where he could borrow one. It seemed only fair: if Howard could borrow Vince's almost-dad, Vince could borrow his mum. It wasn't that he needed a mum; Bernice was all right. It wasn't just because he missed playing with Howard and hanging out with Bryan. It was because it was fair. So he stole Howard's mum. 

It wasn't hard. Mrs. Moon felt obligated already, since Bryan was kind of her boss; and she'd never been especially important to her own kids, she thought; and she was susceptible to flattery, which she got so little of. One Saturday while a music lesson was going on and her daughters were off playing in the park and her husband was grading papers, Mrs. Moon was surprised by a knock at her kitchen door. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Moon," the little jungle boy said. "Can--may I come in?" He'd never asked before, just tore in asking for Howard. 

She was perplexed. "Isn't Howard at yours?"   


"Yes. Learning keyboards. But I got kind of bored so I thought you might like some company." With a glance he assessed what work she'd been doing: a thimble on her finger gave him the information. "Are you sewing something?" 

"Yes. Sure, Vince, come in and sit down." She cleared a space at the kitchen table, where she had a delicate brown paper stretched out and a box of denim patches and another box of thread. "I'm patching a hole in Howard's jeans." She sounded proud--whether it was her needlework or the fact that Howard was boy enough to wear out his jeans, Vince wasn't sure. 

"You're a really good sewer. I seen the shirt you made Howard last week. The stitches, they were almost invisible, they were that tiny." Vince sat down and studied the brown paper. "Is this going to be another shirt?" 

"A blouse for Linda. With a lace collar and cuffs and seven mother of pearl buttons." She showed him the picture on the pattern bag. "But I won't get to start it until next week. Too much mending, you know." 

He leaned in and traced his finger lightly around the edges of the pattern. "What colors? What kind of fabric?" 

Her eyebrows raised. No one in her family had ever asked such a question. In fact, her husband thought she was wasting her time when she could buy the clothes factory-made just as cheap. "Red Swiss dot. The collar and cuffs will be white, of course." 

Vince nodded. What other color would you use for lace cuffs on a red blouse? "That sounds beautiful." 

"It will take a long time. Lace is futzy to work with, but I do like the result." She smoothed Howard's jeans across her lap and picked up a needle. "I have a sewing corner in the study, with a Singer 7258, but Mr. Moon is grading papers today." 

"Oh. The needles are different sizes," he observed, peering into her sewing box. 

"Yes, different sizes for different strength. Depending on the fabric."   


"Which needle will you use for the lace?"  


She set the jeans aside. "Vince, would you like some biscuits?" 

He raised his big earnest eyes to her. "Mostly what I'd like, if it's not too much trouble"--he'd picked that phrase up from Bryan, for whom it worked every time--"is to learn about sewing. Please?" 

Her mouth fell open. \---  


When Howard came home, he had to let the kitchen door bang a little because his mum and his best friend were deep in conversation, cloth and spools of thread and what-all scattered across the kitchen table. She was demonstrating four different kinds of scissors, for crying out loud: Howard didn't know there were more than two (baby scissors and adult scissors). He paused to listen, but mostly to gape, because Mum seemed really pleased about her scissors and she was hardly ever pleased about anything. And Vince, who sat still only to draw, was sitting quietly with piles of patterns in his lap. 

Howard shook his head and strolled off to his room. \---  


"Vince, what are you doing here?" Howard scowled on the second day and the third. 

"Your mum's teaching me how to sew." Vince smiled nastily on the second day. But on the third day, his smile was confused. And on the fourth, he brought his own hand-drawn pattern.  
  


When Bryan tucked him in at night, he bragged about what he was learning. Bryan raised an eyebrow. He didn't appear jealous like he was supposed to, just perplexed. And he didn't seem bothered that his ward was learning a skill usually practiced by middle-aged women. "It's very practical, especially if you still want to be in a band." There was a slight question in his voice, which Vince answered hastily with a nod.   
  


Well, he might not be sure any more: music was an awful lot of work and well boring when you had to play "Mary Had a Little Lamb" a hundred times to get it right. Sewing, well, that was like a drawing or football, wasn't it; you learned something new every time and you started something you could finish. But he nodded nonetheless because Bryan was a musician.  
  


"I remember one night, we were the opening act, you see." That meant the band did everything for themselves, the loading and the driving and the set up. There was no money to pay roadies. Some nights, there was no pay at all. "Just before we went on, Eno ripped the cuff of his flares. Caught a heel in the fabric and riiiiiip!"  
  


Vince giggled.  
  


"'No sweat,' said he. 'Let me whip out my trusty sewing kit.' And quick as a fox, the cuff was put to rights, because he knew how. Years before we had costumes and hairdressers and all that."  
  


"I'm going to sew a tote bag first. That's easiest. But I want to sew skirts and shirts and trousers and dresses and all sort. Mrs. Moon will let me use her Singer."  
  


"I'm well proud," Bryan said, snugging him into the blanket. He could've added, if you stick with it, but he didn't. No learning is ever wasted, even if the skill goes unused, he liked to say. Especially for a seven-year-old.  
  
\---  


"Hey, you know," Howard try to say as they walked to school, "you're always at mine, it seems. But not to play." He meant--and they both knew it-- _not to see me_.   
  


"Like you're always at mine, for music." _For Bryan_ , Vince meant.  
  


"He's well cool," Howard admitted, catching Vince's drift. "He's going to lend me a guitar."  
  


"Your mum lets me use her Singer." It wasn't quite what he wanted to say and that knot of hurt still sat heavy in Vince's stomach. He wanted to argue but he wouldn't win, not with words, and while he easily could bloody Howard's nose before the bigger boy could get off a punch, it wouldn't bring Bryan back.  
  


"He gave me some songbooks to practice on."  
  


"She gave me a box of remnants to practice on."  
  


Howard thought about this. "We're a well weird pair, aren't we?"  
  
\---  
  


It started as a steal, but somewhere along the line, it changed. For one thing, Vince wasn't getting what he wanted out of the arrangement. Yes, he had an adult's time and attention, but the mean mads didn't go away. Yes, Bryan and Howard noticed, and as Bryan got busy writing songs, he had less time for Howard--but also less time for Vince. And Howard, instead of resuming all those afternoon play times with Vince, he shut himself in his room three afternoons a week to practice guitar.  
  


It still hurt. Vince just couldn't figure out exactly why.  
  


And the weird thing was, he thought he might actually like talking to Mrs. Moon. He knew for sure he liked sewing.  
  


Then Bryan was gone a lot again, in rehearsals, then on telly, then tour. And Vince was lonelier than before.  
  
\---  


"Never mind, Vince, it's just a playground pissing contest," Howard growled, grabbing his friend's shoulder in a futile attempt to turn him away. He didn't understand, Vince realized, he couldn't understand because even though his own father was only a teacher, at least he had a father, which was more than Vince had, and at least his father was present in his life, which was more than what half these boys could say. Weird, Vince thought, that of all the topics these boys could argue about, they'd chosen one for which most of them were vulnerable, but maybe Howard was right, this was a pissing contest, similar to ones he'd seen in the jungle between chimps, who would throw crap.  
  


Right now, nerdy little Walter was scoring the most points. His father--the original one, not a hand-me-down--not only lived at home and always had, but also worked for a guy who worked for a guy who worked in Buckingham Palace. Walter's dad had even met Prince Charles once at a banquet. Nobody except Walter understood what the dad did for a living, something to do with investments, but he made a boatload of money and Walter could have gone to a private school except dad believed he'd get a more rounded education attending dad's Elma Matter. Plus--and Walter held his breath dramatically before scoring his final point--dad had played for the Arsenal for two years until a game-related injury had forced him to retire and fall back on his Oxford degree.  
  


Nobody could beat Walter. This was the first and last time in his entire school career that Walt would ever be victorious on the playground. Vince was happy for him, truthfully, but yet, if he could, he would wipe the asphalt with the puny boy. Metaphorically speaking. "Yeah? Well, my dad has three number one albums and ten singles and won Best Dressed in Pop three times and has got nine million in the bank AND met the Queen AT THE PALACE!" It all rushed out of him, some of the information shaky because Vince didn't really understand numbers yet (probably never would). But Howard, now obligated to defend his friend (especially since he had a chance to win this Best Dad contest), seized the spotlight with the capper: "Vince's dad is Bryan Friggin' Ferry, that's who."  
  


But, despite their disdain for Walt, the other boys could not let an untruth stand. An uproar ensued round the question of parenthood, with the tallest boy passing the final judgment: "You ain't got the same last name; you ain't even adopted. You ain't got no dad."  
  


Vince's defeat was complete when he burst out crying.  
  
\---  


At his next visit to the Moons', Vince noticed something: all the Moons looked alike. Even the twins were shorter versions of their mum, and Howard, with his prematurely tall, hunched-shoulder stature, lacked only a mustache to be his father's carbon copy. Vince tested his scientific hypothesis on the playground, when dads arrived to pick up their kids: even the second-hand dads looked like their stepsons. Vince wasn't sure how that worked. It was true in nature too, across the species.  
  


Further, he noted, the school he attended was a big one. Not everyone here had even heard of Vince Noir. (Yet. Vince determined to change that someday.). His dubious parentage was not universally known. He could use his anonymity for once to advantage. If he looked like Bryan, the other kids would assume, whenever Bryan came to pick him up, that they were father and son.  
  


And so he saved his pocket money for an entire month, charming his daily sweets supply from girls, and one afternoon he secreted himself into the upstairs bathroom with a package hidden under his shirt. . . .   
  


Bernice squeaked when he reappeared in her kitchen. Then grimaced, then clicked her tongue and growled, then tugged at his damp hair (Bryan's Jacquettie dryer was just too big for Vince to control), stared at her blackened palm. "What did you do to your hair?!"  
  


Before he could defend himself--really, for a first-timer he thought he'd achieved hair artistry--Bernice had hauled him over to the sink and thrust his head under a running faucet. He twisted and protested but couldn't escape (Bernice had four younger brothers). The cold water hit him like icicles. Then a blast of hot set his scalp on figurative fire. Then cold again. She finally gave up, releasing him and plopping onto a chair, her face in her hands. "Your hair, your beautiful, angelic blond hair," she moaned. "He'll fire me. He'll kill me first, then fire me. I'll never work again. I might as well hop a ship for Siberia."  
  


"But my hair is more beauteous now," he argued lamely.  
  


That lent fuel to her fire. She dragged him to her bedroom, the nearest room with a full-length mirror, and planted him in front of it. "See?"  
  


He saw. He thought his new raven locks looked elegant. Shiny. Mysterious. Ferry-like. "It's nice."  
  


"Oh?" She spun him around, back to the mirror, and plunked a hand-mirror in his hands. "Look again."  
  


A large swath of sunny gold zigzagged through the raven wings. He looked like a mad-scientist's drunken hybrid of a crow and a canary. He sighed. "There's still some left. I bought three bottles. I can fix it."  
  


"No. We're going to get it done right. A professional will fix it." She rubbed her hand over her mouth. "But going from black to blond. . . Yeah," she decided. "Your hair's gonna fall out." She stepped back to examine him, folding her arms. "You're going to call your--call Bryan." She'd almost said "your father"! "Tell him what you did. Ask him what he wants done, blond or black or bald."  
  


"Bald?!!!" For days to come, Vince had nightmares about that possibility, even after he tearfully apologized to his almost-father and received a chuckle in return (Bryan couldn't see the mess over the phone, could he, but Bernice took photos for future reference). He sent them to his personal hairdresser (from whom Vince learned that Bryan's beauteous locks came from craft too) and the hair was properly redyed black, cut and styled. But to Vince's disappointment, the new look did not make him look like a Ferry. The stylist argued he didn't have the bone structure to support the classic Ferry cut. Vince was heartbroken until the hairdresser remarked, "Besides, in your age group, a Jagger cut would be more impressive."   
  


Jagger. Hmm.   
  


When he returned home, Bryan merely ruffled Vince's hair, said he approved, and asked whether the boys would like another keyboard lesson before dinner. "But if you ever decide you want an earring, ask me first, eh, Monkey?"   
  
\--  
  


"You have pretty eyes," said Linda. She held his chin steady so she could examine his eyelashes. Not that he'd ever wrench away while being admired.  
  


"Crystal blue. I'd kill for those eyes," said Laura.  
  


"These lashes. Laurie, wouldn't you just die for lashes like these?" Linda futzed around on her vanity table. His chin still locked in her grip, she tossed a tube at her sister. "Here, open."  
  


Laura giggled and leaned in, flicking a little brush against Vince's eyes. "There." She admired her work. "Gorgeous."  
  


"Needs a dash of liner." Linda acted upon her own suggestion.  
  


"And a touch of smoky shadow."  
  


"Jagger wears makeup. And Eno." But not so much Bryan. From the side of his eyes, Vince caught a glimpse of himself in the vanity mirror. The girls had chosen their colors well: the black mascara and gray eyeshadow complimented his black hair and blue eyes. He smiled at his reflection.  
  
\---  
**1982+**  


Life goes on, Bernice liked to say. She got married and moved to Birmingham; an agency sent another housekeeper, one from Glasgow, and because Thea had freckles and baked gingerbread men and taught him to throw a mean right hook, Vince liked her. The tutor helped him bring his reading grade up, and better reading meant he could do better in some other subjects, so he was promoted to Year Three when Howard went on to Five. Howard got a bit taller and so did Vince, but he remained scrawny, despite the gingerbread. He wondered if his real dad had been skinny too.  
  


It was ridiculous to envy his best friend, Vince came to realize—not that his growing-up brain could completely defeat the mean mads. Howard was his lifelong friend, his cross-your-heart-to-keep-your-secrets confidante, and when he thought about the likely outcomes if he let the mean mads have their way, Vince realized his anger would only backfire on him, pushing Howard away and upsetting Bryan. So as he grew inside as well as in, Vince fought the petty little gremlin that gnawed at his good nature and sometimes, he won.  


Besides, Howard's music lessons had tapered off as Roxy Music started recording a new album. But that was okay; the Jazz Maverick knew enough now to continue on his own. Bryan never asked for the borrowed guitar back. He must've been too busy.  


A more serious demand on Bryan’s time loomed on the horizon: a woman. A tall, svelte brunette from France. She'd been a model for last year's album cover and she started coming round the house soon after. She talked with a weird accent but she didn't mind when Vince misunderstood her or vice versa; she just laughed. She laughed a lot and Vince liked that. The first time she visited, she brought large oranges that squirted sweet juice and she bent to shake Vince's hand. She wore soft, filmy or shiny fabrics that moved when she did and that Vince wished he could wear. Sometimes she stayed the night, but she didn't interrupt when Bryan tucked Vince into bed. At his eighth birthday she took him to a park where they rode go-karts. She was nice, he told Howard, but she took up too much of Bryan's time. One night, Vince told Bryan he didn't need to be tucked in any more; he was too old for it. At Christmas, Bryan took them both to Washington to see his parents. On New Years Day, he took Vince for a long walk in the park. They needed to have a "man to man."   
  


"I've met a lot of lovely women over my career," he said. "I liked many of them a great deal, but it's been difficult to make the relationship last. I just haven't had the time because of my job."  
  


And because of me, Vince thought. He had no illusions: adults liked him well enough but he was a bit weird and he could be a lot of work. He hadn't wanted to share Bryan with Howard, who lived next door; sharing with a strange woman was far worse. 

"But Gwen has been extraordinarily patient with me and I love her, Vince. I hope you like her too."  


The question trapped him between honesty and jealousy. He went for a neutral answer. "She's nice."   
  


"Good." Bryan relaxed into a smile. "She makes me happy. Vince," he knelt to take Vince's hand, showing how important this was. "I'm going to marry her."  


"Oh." What else could he say? Years later, he knew what he should have said, but at the moment, words still came slowly and awkwardly to him. Bryan watched him for a while, looking concerned, then stood up and sighed. "This will be fine. We'll be very happy." But who was he talking to?  


"Can I . . . ."  


"Of course you'll be in the wedding. You can stand up with me. Me and Eno. We'll get you a tux."   


No, Vince wanted to correct: _can I stay? Will you sent me away? Can I still be your boy?_ But he couldn't speak.  
  


They married just after Vince's ninth birthday. They didn't forget the birthday: they gave him a party with the Moons and some football mates and Gwen's young cousins in attendance. Vince said thank you and smiled, but he didn't play. He had a nightmare the night Guinevere moved in: burning planes, faceless mothers, monkeys lost in the jungle.   
  


"She's nice," he kept saying when asked. He wasn't lying. But she sure took up a lot of Bryan's time.  
  
\---  


On the day the mid-term grades were issued, Vince had second thoughts about his decision to attempt to squash his envy of Howard. He had verified reason now: Howard had achieved top marks in music and geography, along with an award for perfect attendance. It was Gwen and Bryan that Howard ran to, to show off his grade report: his own parents, he rightly suspected, would merely nod and shake his hand, then continue about their own business. The Moons weren’t callous people, or demanding; they simply didn’t believe in congratulating a child for doing what he was expected to.  


But Gwen asked Thea to bring out the fairy cakes for tea and Bryan sang “Jolly Good Fellow” while Howard wiggled in his seat at the kitchen table, then everyone applauded. Vince hadn’t gotten the “Jolly Good Fellow” song since Miss Jenkins gold-starred his artwork last year.  


“Bryan, Bryan, Bryan--”  


“Yes, Vince?”  


“I got a gold star on my drawing.” Well, it wasn’t a lie exactly, just a. . . deception.  


“You did? Let’s see it!”  


“Well, I, Miss Jenkins pinned it up on the wall.”  


“Oh?” Bryan cocked his head. “Why would she do that? Isn’t Miss Reeves your art teacher this year?”  


“Oh, yeah, I mean, Miss Reeves. I got mixed up.”  


“I get mixed up sometimes too.” Bryan flashed his charming bad-boy smile at Gwen. “Remember when we played Toulouse last year and I started singing ‘Love is the Drug’ when we were supposed to be playing ‘Take a Chance with Me’?” He leaned against her, she leaned back and they both giggled.  


“I have an idea,” Gwen suggested. “Why don’t we take the boys to the fun fair this weekend, to celebrate Howard’s wonderful marks? Are you free on Saturday, Howard?”  


Howard’s wiggles consumed his entire body. “I’m free, I’m free!” He nudged Vince. “We’ll have massive fun, won’t we, Vince? I’ve never been to a fun fair.”  


“It’s about time we rectified that. I’ll talk to your parents this evening,” Gwen said.  


“I never been to a fun fair either,” Vince muttered, but no one heard him. Just as well: that was a lie too.  
\---  



	2. Chapter 2

**1982**  


"You remember when those chavs beat us up?" Vince asked as they walked to school.  


"Yeah." Howard stuffed his fists into his jacket pocket. "Let's not talk about it, okay?" 

"You remember what you promised then?" 

"Howard Moon never forgets a promise, sir. But suppose you remind me of the specifics?" 

"About my aunties and uncles. Finding them." Vince fixed him with a glare he couldn't weasel out of. "You said you'd help me. You promised." 

"When we got older, I said. Grown up." 

"We're older now." 

"Grown up, I said." 

"No. Now." 

"You aren't even allowed to ride the bus yet. How do you expect to get around? My dad says there are seven billion people in the world. How are you gonna find one or two when you don't even know their names? There are 190 countries. Not even Bryan's been to them all. There are six thousand languages. You can barely speak one." Howard stopped, thrusting his fists onto his hips. "So how do you propose we find someone when you don't know his name or her name or anything? Or even if they exist? You don't even know your name." 

Vince pushed his lower lip out. "Now, Howard. You promised." 

"Don't be a berk." 

During maths class, Vince slid lower in his seat at the back of the room so he wouldn't be noticed, and thought and thought. He drew pictures of what he was thinking. The pictures would be his plan. If he could think of one. 

"I do like an intellectual challenge," Howard said at lunch. He was picking at his hot lunch; Vince still carried a cold sandwich and Cheetos in his KISS box. That was all right, for now; little kids could carry boxes without too much embarrassment. Next year, though, they'd have to work on that, and the fringe. 

"You got an idea?" Vince turned on his kilowatt smile as a reward. 

"Howard Moon is a man of ideas. Coming at you like raindrops at a hundred mph, like Man United, like cannonballs in the Hundred Years War." 

"So be a man of action and let's get started." 

Vince wasn't sure why he needed to find his uncles or aunties, if he had any. Just something deep inside the pictures in his mind got him to wondering: what if Bryan and Gwen noticed one day how much better Howard was? Better behaved, better manners, smarter, quieter, more talented, taller. A Northern lad, like Bryan. A man of action and intellect. What if, maybe, they started sizing Vince up and saw all the flaws, made glaring by the comparison? What if they decided to trade Vince in, like a clunker car? Or throw him out, like a scratched LP? 

You don't throw out what you love, Vince argued with himself. But how can you love a noisy, tantrum-y, vegetable-hating little kid who's always in the way and can't even play "Mary Had a Little Lamb"? And who didn't even have a real name? 

Have a backup, Bryan always said. He'd write fifteen songs and the band could choose; there'd always be another if they didn't like first five. A backup family seemed like a good plan. And if the mean mad in his guts didn't go away, maybe his real family would want him. And then something happened that made up his mind for sure: a baby was born. Now Bryan had a real son. 

Howard, used to sharing his parents with siblings and not minding a bit, didn't see a problem so Vince didn't bring it up. He'd just say Vince was being paranoid or selfish. "I've got to know," Vince argued. "What if I'm a sultan or an astronaut?" Vince tried to sound sunny, trotting alongside the action man. "Or a mountain climber or a grave digger or--oh, Howard, what if I'm a mad scientist or a zombie that eats brains?" 

"You wouldn't be any of those things." Howard stepped onto the electronic mat and waited for the library doors to open. "Your uncle would. But most likely, he's a bin man or geography teacher. Or he doesn't exist at all." He led the way to the Reference Desk, the adult one: that was okay, all the librarians knew him. "Ms. Fleming, this is my friend Vince. He has a reference question." 

"Good morning, Howard. Hello, Vince." She smiled a real smile (since coming to the city Vince had learned the difference between smiles). "You've come to the right place. What is your question?" 

Vince gulped. He wasn't afraid--he could charm most adults, especially women. He just didn't have the right words. It was a difficult question. 

"His name isn't really Vince. He doesn't know what it is." 

The librarian cocked her head, her long silver braid falling over one shoulder. She had freckles. Vince liked freckles and braids so he liked her. "I was in a plane. It crashed. Then Bryan found me." He didn't mention the ape; that would only complicate the matter. "He took me to his house in the jungle." He wanted to include the bus tickets, because that was well clever that Bryan had built a whole house out of bus tickets, but again. . . . "Then we came here. To London." 

"Bryan Ferry," Howard added helpfully. "So Vince could go to school. And he called him Vince Noir. But there was no papers in the plane because it burned up." 

"It exploded." Vince made an explosion with his mouth and hands. "But I don't remember because I was a baby. I'm nine now." 

"More or less." Howard corrected. "We don't know his birthday for sure." 

"I see." The librarian kept her voice steady but her eyes had nearly popped out of her head. She wrote some things down. "And, erm, what can I do for you, Vince?" She glanced hopefully at Howard. "Would you like a library card like Howard's?" 

"No, ma'am, I'd like an uncle. Or an auntie." 

She choked. 

"He wants to know his real name," Howard explained, "and if he's got any family. Besides Bryan, who's not his father." 

"He died in the plane crash. With my mum." 

"So Bryan is your. . .legal guardian?" 

Vince nodded, then shook his head. "I don't know 'legal.' He wrote down 'guardian' on my school papers." 

"Vince isn't adopted or anything. But he lives with Bryan." 

"And Thea. She takes care of me when Bryan's gone." 

"I see. Vince, does Bryan know you're here? Did he give you permission to come and. . . ask this?" 

"He's on tour. With the other Brian. But he always lets me come to the library." 

"We asked Thea. She gave permission." 

"Hmmm. All right." Ms. Fleming tapped her pencil (a ForestChoice, Howard noted, plain but sturdy). "So. Bryan Ferry the musician. With Roxy Music. Nine years old. Jungle. Which country, do you know?" 

"South Africa. Near Johannesburg," Vince answered proudly. At least he knew something for sure. 

She stood up, palms flat on her desk. "All right. Gentlemen, we have our work cut out for us, but I do like an intellectual challenge."   
\---  


"Vince, I'm starting to get nervous about this." 

"Why?" Vince had to bite his pencil to keep from yelling. He wasn't getting nervous, he was getting frustrated, as well as angry that Howard wanted to back out. They'd only put in four afternoons on this, poring through microfilm and biographies for every mention of Bryan Ferry, a plane crash in South Africa, a missing baby. "You promised me." 

"Yeah, but maybe we should tell someone what we're doing." 

"We did. Ms. Fleming. And your mum and Thea know we're here. What trouble can we get into in a library?" 

"Maybe we should tell Bryan. What if he gets angry that we're keeping a secret from him? Or what if he's hurt that we're, I don't know," Howard gave Vince a moment to think. 

"When I find out who I am I'll tell him." 

"Why are you doing this, anyway? You've got a great life. You don't want to mess it up. Some things are better left alone." 

"Not kids," Vince replied grimly. 

"Huh?" 

"What if he gets too busy for me? What if Thea quits and he's stuck taking me everywhere? What if Gwen wants to move to Ireland or Iceland? What if--" What if, now that they had the real thing, the Ferrys didn't need a Noir any more? "Get back to work, Action Man. You promised." 

At noon Ms. Fleming brought them more microfilm, but took them to the staff room first. She'd brought an extra sandwich and a thermos of soup to share. "I admire your tenacity, gentlemen. Any luck?" They shook their heads. They'd learned more than they wanted to know about Bryan, much of it they suspected to be lies. And Howard had made his father proud by learning so much about the South African jungle that he wrote a paper for school about it. They'd found small mentions of Bryan raising an orphan child; there was no name given, no explanation of how he'd discovered the boy, no photos. Bryan was fiercely protective of his ward's safety. But a plane crash in Johannesburg? No mention. 

They searched until there was no microfilm left. They searched police blotters, obituaries and birth notices, even lost and found listings. Vince had more nightmares and fell asleep in school, forcing Gwen into a parent-teacher conference. Howard's guitar gathered dust in the corner. Mrs. Moon complained that she missed her sewing buddy. 

"There's nothing more left," Ms. Fleming said mournfully. "Just Stephen. Though the rules prohibit him from doing much for us." 

"Who's Stephen?" 

"A friend of mine." She opened the door to the break room, where an old guy with a shiny bald head was sitting, drinking coffee. They all sat down, crammed into the same small table, and shared sandwiches. Vince contributed a package of bootlaces to the feast. 

"Connie filled me in. Don't worry. What you say to me is confidential. I have an idea of where to look, a special list. But first I need you to do something hard." 

"What's that?" Vince wondered if it involved truth serum or a trip to the morgue. 

"Talk to Mr. Ferry. He's going to have to agree." 

"No," Vince said automatically, but as they ate, he thought about it. Why not? Bryan might not figure out why, or might not care. Might even be a relief for him to find out if Vince had another family to go to. 

Mr. Haywood and Ms. Fleming gave him a one-week deadline. Not that he'd procrastinate on a task so vital to his mission, but allowed too much time, he was likely to figure a way around it. "Tonight. I'll do it tonight," he vowed. Bryan was scheduled to have dinner at home, fulfilling a promise to Gwen to spend more time with her and Sam (and Vince too, of course, she added). 

He let determination steel his nerves at he sat down at the dining room table that night. He didn't like the dining room--the table was too long and even though Gwen let him sit on Bryan's left when they had family meals, he had trouble hearing what was said, especially with the baby in his high chair. This room kind of felt like a church, he thought, not at all cramped and cozy like the kitchen, where they used to eat, when it was just him and Bryan. Yeah, he got it: they needed more room now, but Vince missed the old days when they'd pass the plates between them, not have to wait for Clara (that was the cook, a remnant of Gwen's childhood gifted to her by her father upon her marriage). And Bryan used to let Vince have hot dogs and peanut butter--together: Vince thought the textures made an interesting combination--but now Gwen insisted a growing child needed broccoli with Hollandaise--and NOT to use as a river and trees in a veggie sculpture. 

As Gwen spooned strained peas into the baby, Vince grabbed the opportunity to murmur to Bryan, "Can we talk in private after?" He'd heard Gwen use that phrase often and thought it sounded grown up. He added, lest Bryan resist the omission of his wife, "It's a guy thing." 

"Oh." Bryan looked pleased. "Of course, Vincent." Vincent, not Monkey, to show he could appreciate his ward's maturity. To his wife: "I believe I'll finish that landscape tonight." Meaning, he wanted to be alone in his art studio. Meaning to Vince: meet me there. Come up the back stairs. 

Satisfied, Vince ate his broccoli. \---  


"What's up, Vincent?" Bryan set down his palette. He really had added a few strokes to the French Riviera he was painting; he hated to fib to anyone. He gestured to the settee, then sat down himself. 

But Vince didn't sit. He needed every inch he could muster, so he drew himself up tall. "Bryan, a man needs roots. Right? You said so yourself." 

"Yes?" Bryan blinked. This was not the birds-and-bees question he was expecting. 

"To know where he's going, a man has to know where he comes from." Vince had heard Bryan say that just this month to a reporter from Washington. 

"Yes. . . ." 

"I don't know where I came from. I don't even know my real name." Vince threw his hands into the air. "I could be Bob or Charles or Mick. I could be--what if my real dad's a genius, Bryan? What if my real mum is alive and lives in Bermuda and she's real poor and I could give her my allowance? What if I got a big brother or an auntie and they're missing me all these years? And maybe they're dying of a disease and I could give them a spleen? Shouldn't they know I'm alive? Shouldn't I know them?" 

"Vince, lad, I under--" 

"No you don't, Bryan. Your mum and dad live in Washington. You can see 'em any time. I don't even know my name!" 

Bryan opened his arms, inviting Vince in; it had been ages since he'd done that. Vince accepted, but kept his body stiff as they hugged, lest he, you know, cry. 

"Yes," Bryan said, kind of to himself. "I knew this would come. Just--I thought we had a few more years." He lifted Vince onto his knee. "My boy," he started, emphasizing the "my." "You know I love you. Just as much as Sam." Vince didn't nod. "In some ways, differently, because you came to me when we needed each other most." 

Now Vince wanted to crash into him, bury his face into his collar and sob, like he used to when he was little, after a nightmare. When it was just them in the house. But he had to stay strong. Nobody likes a whiny nine-year-old. He dared, however: "You needed me?" 

"Oh yes." Bryan kind of chuckled. "I didn't know it then, when Maisie brought you to me. But the longer we were together, the more I learned from you. We grew together. Someday, if you have a child of your own, you'll understand what I mean. At first, you were a distraction. I'd come to Johannesburg to cure myself. I'd let myself get involved with--something I shouldn't. I'll tell you about it when you're a little older so you won't fall into the same trap. But I needed to heal and find my creativity again." 

Now Vince nodded. Creativity, he understood and valued. Not so dissimilar to Bryan. 

"I needed to get away from the scene. Everything: parties, money, the business, the photographers, the noise." Vince had seen all that: why would anyone want to get away from it? "It was squashing my creativity. I'd stopped painting. The lyrics I was writing were nonsense. The music, loud and chaotic. And the more fearful I became, the more drugs I took. I needed to heal. South Africa was far away from all that. And beautiful and real. So I bought a house and took my canvases and left my dinner jackets behind. At first, I just sat on the veranda and watched the animals. But when I felt better, I started to paint again." 

Vince had been told this part of the story: "And then one night, a loud boom and fire in the jungle. You called the authorities." Vince still didn't know quite what "authorities" were, but he liked the word. It had sounded reassuring every time Bryan told this story. Their story. 

"And the gardener and Bernice and I ran into the jungle. We did not know yet what had happened, but we were the only people for miles, so we had to find out." 

"And you found Maisie." 

"Or she found us. Who knows how smart the animals are? She carried an infant swaddled in a blanket." 

"A Vince blanket." 

"Yes. I gave you to Bernice; she took you into the house to tend your wounds. You had bruises to you chest and face, lacerations to your arms, but no serious injuries. To this day, I can't imagine how you survived. You were a miracle survivor. My miracle. The gardener and I ran into the burning forest, but we couldn't get close to the crash site. The fire was too intense. We had to stand well back. But after a long time, the authorities arrived and put the fire out. A single-engine plane had crashed. There were no survivors, they said, until we showed them the baby. They couldn't figure it out either. You must have been thrown clear of the wreckage. The ape must have snatched you up before the fire could take you." 

"Poor Maisie," Vince murmured. 

"The bodies, a man and a woman--your parents, we assumed--couldn't be recovered or identified." 

"Poor Vincie." 

"A doctor came and treated you. You would be fine, she said. The police said they would take you to an orphanage and try to search for your family. I said no, leave--" 

''’Leave him with me. I have a maid and plenty of room.'" This was Vince's favorite part. "'And lots to give until his family can been found.'" 

"Lots of love, I found out later. I didn't know how much love until then. And every day they called me to say what they'd done to find out your identity, but there were no records of this flight. No serial number for the plane in the wreckage. Missing persons files, pilots' licenses, birth certificates for South African hospitals--I can't begin to list everywhere they looked. And weeks went by, and the calls came less frequently, because they had run out of ideas and they had other things to investigate." 

"And they didn’t have to worry because the baby was safe and you had lots to give and lots of time." Vince rested his head on Bryan's shoulder. 

"And you--I couldn't imagine it, but you had lots to give too. Because the first time I held you and fed you a bottle and burped you, you smiled at me. Right at me. Gas, Bernice said, but I know it was a smile. Certain things you started doing early in life, earlier than other babies, and smiling was one of them. And you never stopped. And that, my lad, was the biggest miracle of all." 

Vince surrendered a smile. 

"Yes, like that. After that, whenever I thought I'd like a taste of cocaine, I remembered that smile. And when the band wanted to party, I said no, I have to call my boy. I'm sorry, Vince, that I was gone so much of your life." 

Vince nodded. Yes, the apology was necessary for both of them. Not that it would change anything. The tours might come less frequently, but there were Gwen and Sam to divide Bryan's time. And who knows what other babies might pop up. 

"And the police?" 

"When they stopped calling, I started calling them. I still do, once a year, on your birthday. A cold case, it's become. I ran ads in all the major newspapers. I offered a reward. I hired a PI--" 

"Like Rockford?" 

"Yes, but British, and he drives a Mini. The best anyone can surmise is that the plane had been stripped of all identification, no flight plan had been filed, no one in authority had been told this flight was being made and no one reported it missing. The police think, and so do I now, that this was a criminal act." 

"What does that mean?" 

"I think. . . ." Bryan stroked Vince's back. "The police have a list of unlicensed pilots who've been arrested before for breaking the law. These people go underground very easily--they hide and no one can find them. A lot of times, they have no legitimate jobs and fake records of their identities. When they go missing, their families, if they have one, don't report it. So the police looked at this list, but they don't know if your father or mother is on the list. And nobody can guess why they took a baby with them, unless they were running away." 

"Why would they run away? Were chavs after them?" 

"I think your parents were smuggling something. Or running from smugglers they'd stolen something from. Something that was destroyed in the fire. I think. . . people like me are to blame. People who took drugs." 

"My parents were bad." 

"All of us do bad things sometimes. We don't know why they did whatever they did, except they must've been desperate to have a baby with them. Maybe someday we'll learn the truth, but for now, we must take care of each other, yes?" 

"I'm finding them," Vince blurted. "I have a friend, a--” he couldn’t remember the term Ms. Fleming had used, so he substituted. “A library guy. He’s helping.” 

Bryan pulled back to stare Vince in the face. "What are you saying? What have you done?" 

He swallowed hard first, but he didn't back down. Vince told Bryan all about the search, except for the real reason for it, and he left Howard out, hoping Bryan wouldn't figure out that Vince wouldn't have gone into the library on his own volition. If there was trouble to pay for, Howard shouldn't have to pay too. 

"And Mr. Haywood says if you sign a paper, he can search a special list." 

"I think I'd better talk to Mr. Haywood right away. Where can I find him?" He had that look on his face, the one Vince couldn't read, the one that was more frightening than anger because it could go in any direction. But Vince slid off his lap and fetched his book bag, stuffed with his research notes, and he took from its front pocket a business card. 

Bryan went off alone to call the number in the card. When he returned to the studio, his face was pale but his eyes were cracked with red. "You'd better go to bed, Vince. We've got an appointment at eight tomorrow." 

"What about school?" Yep, this could go in any direction, but to be taken out of school was a bad sign. 

"Gwen will call the school." 

"No! Don't tell Gwen." Gwen couldn't be fooled; she'd figure him out; she wasn't blinded by Vince's love like Bryan was. "Man to man, you promised." 

Bryan didn't sound mad, just nervous and tired. "Sometimes the truth is more important than a promise, Vince. But I won't tell her until I've met with Mr. Haywood. Go to bed now. I'll tuck you in." 

With the blankets pulled under his chin, Vince felt small. He supposed he ought to return Bryan's "Good night. I love you" but the mean mads choked him. Or something did.  
  
\---  


They'd gone to the back door, an iron door that Vince didn't know the library even had. They rang and the bald guy opened. "Mr. Haywood? I'm Bryan Ferry. I believe you already know my ward, Vince Noir. Thank you for meeting with us so early." 

"Hello, Vince. No problem, Mr. Ferry; I understand the press could be a pain in the patoot if they found out. Come in, have a seat. Coffee? Tea?" 

"Tea please. Two sugars. The same for Vince." 

When the niceties had passed and everyone was comfortable, Haywood began. "As I mentioned last night, I have an idea for how we might find Vince's relatives, if he has any." 

"We searched for years. Couldn't even find his father's name." 

"Yes, but if we go in a side door," Haywood smiled. "Look for people who don't have a reason to hide, instead of the parents, who do. Which is what Vince wants, anyway. As I understand it." Haywood peered at Vince, who reddened, though he wasn't sure why. 

"I don't follow." 

"This is a new innovation in genealogy, still in its infancy, but it offers a hope for you, anyway, and I've some experience with helping unknown relatives find each other through it: DNA matching. Primarily it's been used to establish paternity, but recently, I was able to assist a man who was adopted in infancy find his brother. There's a small chance, if any of Vince's relatives on either genetic side had this test done--say, if his maternal second cousin were writing her family tree for posterity--we might find a match in one of the two databases. If not this year, then perhaps a year or two, as the databases grow." 

"I can't wait a year," Vince protested. In a year, there could be another baby and the house might be too crowded for three kids, or, more likely, Bryan might realize by then how much smarter and more musical and cuter--definitely cuter--Sam was than the jungle boy that not even an ape wanted to keep. 

"Genealogy is a slow science, I'm afraid. You could be an old man like me before the databases are large enough to include your family." Haywood rubbed his bald head with a chuckle, making Vince yelp at both horrible thoughts. "I can't promise we'll ever find a match, but it's one method, the only one that your guardian hasn't tried." 

"What's involved?" Bryan glanced hastily at the boy. "A blood sample?" 

"A cheek swab. And three hundred £ and about two weeks." Haywood demonstrated with a pencil. "This is what they do, Vince. A cotton swab to the inside of your cheek, to gather genetic material. You'd feel more pain biting your fingernails. I've had it done. The hardest part's the wait." 

"Do you want to this, Vince?" Bryan asked. "Don't get your hopes up, but if it's so easy and they don't throw the results out after the first search--" 

"They don't. That would defeat the purpose," Haywood interrupted. "We genealogists seldom throw anything out. I keep kits here in my office, to aid our amateur genealogists. I can get it in the morning post." 

"I want to." Three hundred £: that was what Sam's crib had cost. If a cheek swab would get Vince a backup family, hell, Vince would spit until his mouth dried up. 

With a nod from Bryan, Haywood opened a vial from his desk drawer. "Now, Vince, if you'll come round to me, and Mr. Ferry, if you'll sign these papers, we can begin."  
\--  


Bryan said almost nothing as he dropped Vince off at school, just "Call me if you need me to come get you during the day. Otherwise, I'll pick you up tonight." Vince didn't call; it was soothing enough to have Howard to talk to at lunch. When Bryan met them at the doors after class, he politely offered Howard a ride home too, so the return trip was silent. Bryan kept glancing back at them through the rear view mirror; he seemed disappointed. "Say hi to your folks for me," he said as he pulled into the Ferry driveway. "I, ah, think we'll ease up on the music lessons for a while." 

"That's fine. Thanks, Mr. Ferry." Howard popped out and ran across the lawn to his home. Vince wished he could go with him; the blandness of the Moon household seemed suddenly attractive. 

"Maybe we could have a talk before dinner," Bryan suggested, unlocking the front door. 

The baby was howling and pots and pans were banging in the kitchen. "Maybe not," Vince snapped. He could kick himself for letting the mean mads take over his tongue. Sam needs you." 

Bryan looked at him strangely, then slid an arm around his shoulders and held tight, as if Vince would run away otherwise. "Gwen? Bernice? Anyone home?" 

"Thea. Her name's Thea. Bernice quit last year," Vince reminded him. Did he get his children's names mixed up too? Did he ever call Sam "Vince"? Or, more likely, how long would it be before he forgot Vince's name altogether? Vince thought it might be time pack an emergency bag and keep it under his bed. If he still had a bed, after tonight. 

Gwen poked her head around the top of the staircase. Her hair was wrapped in a towel and her body, in a fluffy robe. "Sorry, darling. Didn't hear you come in. Hi, Vince. Hang on a minute while I check on the baby." Her voice faded as she trailed off. "Sorry about the noise. Thea has the day off." 

Vince watched from the corner of his eyes. "Aren't you going to go help her?" 

Bryan squeezed his shoulders. "Let's go to the art studio, my lad. We both seem to think clearer when we have brushes in our hands." 

Vince dragged his feet and considered running away, but where? The Moons would only send him back and he figured a hotel would cost at least five or six £. (He remembered the first hotel he'd ever seen, the George V in Paris, on the layover flight from Johannesburg to London. All he had to do to get any kind of sweets he wanted was to pick up the telephone--while Bryan was asleep. The next morning when Bryan found that mountain of crumpled wrappers and one belly-clutching seven-year-old on the floor, there had been explaining to do. The George was a nice hotel, Vince thought now; he might go there when he ran away. He wondered what a bus ticket to Paris would cost.) 

Like a prisoner being led to the gallows (he and Howard had seen that in a late-night telepic they'd snuck out of bed to watch), Vince shuffled his feet. At the closed door to the studio--"the artists sanctuary," Bryan called it; no non-artists were allowed, not even Gwen or Thea--Vince tried one last time: "Shouldn't you go see if Sam is okay?" 

Bryan's head snapped up and his eyes widened. "This is about Sam, isn't it?" He urged Vince inside, then closed the door. "And Gwen. Oh, Vince." His voice sounded so heavy, almost too heavy for his tall, strong frame. He clutched Vince to him in a tight hug and rubbed his back. "Vince, I'm so sorry." And before Vince could ask what he was sorry about, they both were crying. 

The tears didn't last long. They had too much to discuss before dinner, and neither of them wanted Gwen interrupting. Bryan led him to the settee, but sitting side by side didn't allow for face-to-face conversation, so he had Vince sit on the settee while he dragged up a folding chair. "This is about Gwen and Sam, isn't it." Vince remained silent; it was easier. More manly, probably. 

"Let's start from there. You can correct me if I'm wrong. I think this is my fault." Bryan leaned back, closing his eyes. "From the beginning. When you came to live with me, I assumed it would be temporary. I assumed diaper changes, feelings, baths, a little playtime would be all you'd need from me. Me and Bernice; she taught me how. But time has a way of pushing you along in its wake so you don't realize the months are passing, and love has a way of wrapping around you like a warm blanket that you don't realize you're snuggled in. Especially when you don't want to let go. One day you're burping a baby, the next you're driving him to school. After a while, when strangers would stop me on the street and ask, 'Is he yours' I stopped explaining. 

"I thought a lot about making our arrangement legal and permanent. In most ways, it already seemed permanent. I don't know what I would've done if someone had answered my adverts. Perhaps I would've been a son of a bitch about it. I have money enough for a protracted legal battle," Bryan smiled faintly. "I told myself I probably could give you a better life than your blood kin could. Anyway, what kind of people were they that they didn't come looking for you? I tried to protect you from the paparazzi, but photos always sneaked into _The Sun_ or _The Daily Mail_. Surely they could've found you if they tried." 

"Maybe they didn’t want me neither," Vince corrected bitterly. Bryan’s eyebrows shot up. “Vince? What do you--”

“Who wants me?” Vince snapped. “I ain’t smart; I can’t hardly read. I cost a lot of money. I can’t fight. I’m short and skinny and I look girly and I want to wear makeup; even the nice kids at school laugh at me. I tell lies, that’s what my teacher says; she says I’m trying to impress the other kids. She don’t believe me about the jungle and Maisie and all. She says I’m just a lyin’ ragamuffin from the streets that won’t amount to nothin’.” He lowered his eyes to the linoleum. “Howard shoulda been your boy.” 

“Howard? Howard Moon?” 

“He’s a musician like you. He even likes jazz and he’s smart and the teacher gives him gold stars for classroom citizenship. And the only time he gets into fights is because of me. He’s even tall like you. When you come to pick us up at school, kids think he’s your boy. A Ferry." 

In that instant he felt unburdened, but in the next, he wanted to to crumple every word he'd said tonight like a sheet of paper containing a gone-wrong drawing. Bryan's face had changed into something Vince couldn't recognize or identify, but surely, anger had to be at base of whatever emotions Bryan was feeling. Vince had insulted him, displayed spoiled-brat ingratitude; worse, reminded him how far from acceptable Ragamuffin Jungle Boy was from the ward a man like Bryan Ferry deserved. A mistake, it had been, accepting the mewling brat from Maisie that night. A bigger mistake not passing him off to the authorities. 

A mistake Bryan would now rectify. "I--Vince, wait here. I need to talk to Gwen. I won't be long." And he left. 

Vince stood and waited. Sat down and waited. Picked up a paint brush and set it down again and waited. Watched and listened at the door. He deserved the extra punishment of the anxiety that came with waiting and imagining his punishment. They'd throw him out, that was certain, but would it be tonight in the dark or would they do it in the morning? Would they let him eat dinner first? Pack a suitcase (surely not: the clothes in Vince's closet were bought by Bryan. Even the closet was Bryan's. Well, not the yellow blouse and striped flares Mrs. Moon had helped him sew. Or the brown woolen scarf that Vince never wore because it clashed with everything; that had been a gift from Howard. Vince could wear it in good health.)? Say goodbye to Thea? Trudge slowly down the long, dank corridor to the cold unknown (he should wear black for that journey, if he could find any in his--Bryan's closet). He should run away now, avoid the embarrassment of a tongue-lashing, make them wonder where he'd gone (not Howard's, that would be obvious). Not that they'd care. He'd be saving them the trouble. 

This sure was taking a long time. 

He would run away to the zoo. There would be places he could get warm and sleep, things to eat. The animals would share. Some of them would like him. The gorillas would hide him from the zookeepers. 

He sat down again. That was a mistake; sitting made him think. He began to tremble. He'd never seen the zoo after dark. Did they turn all the lights out'? Did the toucans talk all night? Vince didn't like them; they were such complainers. Did they lock up the refreshments hut and the drinks machines? A growing boy needs milk. Vince hadn't thought about the zoo in a long time. Maybe he'd grown too old for it. He couldn't think about the dark and the toucans. He was on his own now. 

He could take his bicycle. 

His stomach ached with hunger and nervousness. He hated waiting. He thought he'd paint a goodbye picture for Howard. He trotted over to his easel, where he'd started a painting a long time ago. He couldn't remember what he'd planned to paint. He didn't have much time--or did he? Maybe Bryan would keep him locked up here all night, alone, cold, hungry, because why waste food on an orphan? Yeah, keep him in uncertainty, because punishment hurt double when you had to wait for it, if you were a kid with imagination. 

No, he wouldn't let his imagination run away with him. He was on his own now; he had to be a man. He lifted his chin nobly. A man considered others' feelings, Bryan sometimes said. Howard would be crushed by Vince's sudden disappearance, shattered if days and years went by without ever learning what had happened to his best friend. A man wouldn't leave his friend to suffer, would he? Vince could leave him a secret message. Maybe Howard would glob on and go looking for him. Crawl out of his bedroom window at midnight, drop down soundlessly to the soft grass and by the light of a full moon run off to rescue his friend. Scratch that: Fill a bookbag with sweets and then drop down to the soft grass, etc. because Howard would know Vince was hungry. Howard was thoughtful like that. 

So Vince would leave him a secret message. He picked up his palette and began to paint the chimpanzee cage at the zoo, with a full moon shining brightly above. Behind the spaciously spread bars (he had to leave space so you could see the chimps behind the bars. He realized that wasn't right but he hadn't figured out how perspective worked yet. Bryan had promised to teach him. . . Another abandoned promise dumped like litter on the wayside, because Sam had to come first.) 

So a family of chimps: a father chimp, a mother chimp and the kid chimp, behind spacious bars, sharing a meal of strawberry bootlaces and Cheetos from a family-sized bag (the chimps at the zoo weren't allowed people food, so that was the first clue for Howard; he'd recognize these treats as Vince's favorites). And just to make certain, Vince gave the child chimp a lovely head of black, Jagger-shagged hair. 

Behind him he heard footsteps and voices and the door opening. He couldn't finish the portrait: mum and dad chimp would have to remain faceless. In the remaining moments of his childhood he scrawled "For Howard from Vince xxxx" in the lower right corner. He stepped back to inspect. It wasn't artistic but the message was clear. 

The studio door swung open (it wasn't locked after all). In a panic Vince realized Howard would have no way of knowing this was the London Zoo. What if he mistook it for Paris (where Vince had dreamed aloud of going when he grew up) or Birmingham (Howard's dream place)? He swept a vertical slash of black in the background and scrawled "bong bong" inside a dialog balloon with the speaking tail pointing to the tall slash. It would have to be enough to represent Big Ben. 

"Vince, come here, please." Bryan was holding Gwen's hand. Of course he was. It would be a unified effort. He gestured and Gwen, with a sad glance at Vince, sat down on the settee. Bryan sat beside her, still clutching her hand. He wiggled a finger, summoning the man-child to stand before him. Vince felt himself shrink, like the hero in a sci-fi film under the intense beam of a shrinking ray. But he raised his chin defiantly and looked head-on into the immovable wall of parent before him. 

"Ah, Vince." Gwen teared up. This threw Vince off-guard. 

Bryan shook his head slowly, as he always did before administering punishment--but then he released Gwen's hand and opened his arms wide in his hugging posture and Vince's body automatically responded, rushing into the hug, even as his brain screamed "Trap, trap, trap!" 

Bryan drew Vince's face into his shoulder and rubbed his back. "Oh, Monkey. My mischievous, sweet monkey, I am so, so sorry. I’ve been such a--”

“Ballbag?” Gwen supplied. 

The adults laughed but Vince pulled back, looking from one to the other in confusion. 

“Monkey.” Bryan took one of Vince’s hands in his, and Gwen took Vince’s other hand (ignoring the wet paint on his fingertips). Vince couldn’t pull away but he did take a step back in case—well, just in case. Bryan sighed and started again. “Vince. I owe you a tremendous apology.” 

Vince stared stupidly. “Huh?” 

"I thought things were going great.” Bryan glanced down at his shoes (Ferragamo Oxfords; Vince had literally learned fashion at Bryan’s and Brian’s feet), then blinked and forced himself to look Vince in the eye. “I know all these years, I was gone too much, but when I was here, I thought I was fully here. You smile so much, I thought you were happy. I thought you felt loved and secure. We were two men batching it, I thought. And then I met Gwen and my world expanded beyond what I'd thought was capable. She loves me in spite of myself.” 

Gwen slipped her free arm under Bryan’s and leaned into him in a sideways cuddle. 

“That's a powerful thing, a rare thing, Vince. It must be treasured, preserved. But your love was a rare thing too and I'm afraid I didn't value it as I should. I see now, I let other things get in the way. The concerts, the recording studio, the art shows, the public appearances, even the dates with Gwen. And now with Sam, you must feel forgotten." He studied Vince's eyes. "Abandoned?" 

Vince nodded but admitted, "He's your boy. You belong to him." 

"I belong to you too. You're my boy too. . . Aren't you? Is that what you want?" 

Vince stared at his shoes (self-decorated Nikes, not Ferragamos, which he thought were well boring). What kind of a ballbag would he be to steal a baby's dad? Not that he could; Bryan needed Sam. 

"There will always be a special bond between you and me, I hope. I guess I assumed that; I forgot to tell you. I'm sorry. Will you forgive me?" 

Vince shrugged. Forgiving didn't mean forgetting that he was number three now on Bryan's list of priorities. 

“I’m going to work on rebuilding the special bond between us. When you first came into my life, I never would have guessed how much I needed a tree-climbing, picture-painting, bootlace-chewing, fashion-forward little dreamer with a smile that could light up all of Europe. The way you look at the world inspires and encourages me. You have an imagination that I envy; you effortlessly created entire worlds in your mind and spin stories that I have borrowed from, to write my songs. We’re alike in so many ways, reporters ask me all the time if you’re my son. It’s my fault that I haven’t made that happen. I thought I was waiting for your family to come forward, but all the while, you and I were becoming family. It’s time to make it official.” He nodded at Gwen. 

“Vince, Bry—your father and I have discussed this for a long time. We’re in full agreement. If you approve, we’d like to change your name to Ferry. Or Vincent Noir-Ferry, if you prefer.” 

“We would go, all four of us, to a judge and ask to adopt you. Then there would be no doubt: you’re our son in the eyes of the law, as you always have been in our hearts.” 

“And Sam’s big brother,” Gwen reminded them. 

“You mean it, Bryan?” Vince held his breath. 

The musician’s blue eyes shooting up to meet his would have been enough of an answer, if not for the fragility of Vince’s self-esteem. “I mean it, Vince.” 

“So do I,” Gwen added. 

“If you’d like some time to think it over—it’s a big decision--” 

“I don’t think I need to think,” Vince sputtered. “I think I know. I want to be a Ferry. Vincent Noir-Ferry.” 

“Give us a hug, then, please,” Gwen requested, and Bryan added, “Son.” She and Bryan made a half-circle with their arms for Vince to walk into.


	3. 2011-2020

**30 Nov. 2011**

****

****

**_Bryan Ferry Made CBE._**

_At a brief Buckingham Palace ceremony this morning, singer/songwriter Bryan Ferry of the band Roxy Music was made a CBE by the Queen. The tribute acknowleges an innovative forty-year career in popular music, as well as contributions to British charities. In a morning suit designed by Jean Claude Jacquettie, Ferry posed alongside his sons for pictures outside Buckingham Palace. “This honor is the greatest of my life,” Ferry said. “I couldn’t have done any of it without the love and support of my family.” The singer’s eldest son, television personality Vince Noir, spoke for his younger brothers: “We’re all incredibly proud of him.” \--Highgate Morning News_

  
\---  
**SOMETIME AFTER THE END OF THE CORONAVIRUS, 2021?**  


Buzzing about, like happy little honey bees. Vince stands on the lip of his stage, watching with admiration as the thirty-four employees of _Noir at Night_ dash about, making final arrangements before the guests arrive to begin filming tonight’s show. His show. His BAFTA-winning chat show.  


At stage right, his show’s house band, the Violent Quiche, is warming up. As he eavesdrops on their planning, he feels a stab of envy—but he isn’t a musician any more, never really had been. He isn’t sure what exactly he is—not really an actor, seldom a singer, not quite a comedian, but whatever he calls himself, he’s good at it.  


At stage left, the producer has encircled herself with the camera and sound crew for some last-minute instructions. Behind him are fifty theater chairs—empty, because the audience is still elsewhere in the BBC building, getting a tour. Straight ahead, a production assistant is fluffing couch cushions and arranging a vase of daisies, his signature flower, next to the 8 by 11 signed glossy of Kate Bush on Vince’s desk. Vince never lets his show start without those two good luck charms on his desk. Tucked into the vase of those daisies, where only Vince can see during the taping, is a love-you card from Howard.  


All is well in Noirland.  


Kerry, Vince’s personal assistant, suddenly appears at his elbow. “Your husband’s waiting in your dressing room.”  


“Genius. Thanks, Ker.” Vince takes off like a beam. His arms are already reaching out as he sweeps into the dressing room. “Howaaaard! You came all the way cross town to watch us tape?”  


Howard accepts the hug and tops it off with a kiss. “I’d cross the Seven Seas on a kayak to spend a moment with you, Little Man. You know that.”  


“The Seven Seas? Peeshaw, that’s nothing for a Man of Action. You used to offer to cross the known universe to bring me back a star to match the twinkle in my eyes.”  


Howard chuckles. “Yeah, well, I was younger then, wasn’t I? Now I’m more a Man of Delayed Action, I suppose.”  


“What brings you here? And don’t say ‘the Number Five bus.’” They continued along the corridor.  


Howard seizes his forearm. “I brought you a special visitor. Very special.” He directs Vince’s attention to a little old lady carrying a briefcase. There’s something familiar about the long braid resting along her shoulder and down her back.  


“Vincent Noir-Ferry-Moon?” The elderly woman sticks out her hand for Vince to shake. The bones in her hand are as thin as knitting needles but her grip is as firm as a body builder’s.  


“That’s me,” Vince welcomes her. “Just call me Vince.”  


“Vince,” Howard says softly, “this is a friend of ours, from our kid days. Ms. Connie Fleming, from Camden Corners Library.”  


“Retired now,” she adds.  


Why does that sound familiar? Vince turns to Howard for an explanation.  


“You’ve done well for yourself.” The lady’s eyes roam the room, then studies his work outfit. To her credit, she smiles approvingly at his Dinosaur Jr. jumper, skin-tight jeans and Calvin Klein guyliner.  


Howard scoops up a stack of research folders from a spare chair and piles them onto the dressing table. Having made space for the guest, he invites her to sit, his eyes bright as he watches the interplay between her and his husband. Vince snaps to, as if suddenly awakening. “Oh! Sorry, Ms. Fleming. We just recently moved back into the studio, after months filming from home. The place is chaotic.”  


“Quite all right. Vince, I have exciting news for you.”  


Exciting library news? Vince takes a wild guess: maybe, following on the tails of the investiture, the city had plans to name a library after Bryan?  


Howard can’t wait any longer. “Vince, this is Ms. Fleming! The Library Lady! The librarian who helped us search for your parents, all those years ago.”  


“Wow. Genius! Ms. Fleming, it’s so good to see you again,” Vince takes up her hand and kisses it, making the lady giggle. “I never did thank you properly for all your help.”  


“That’s quite all right, Vincent. Part of the job. In fact, that’s why I’m here. It’s been many, many years, but a good librarian never leaves a question unanswered if she or he can help it. And I have an answer!” She raises her briefcase triumphantly.  


“An answer?” Howard puzzles.  


“Yes!” Ms. Fleming unsnaps the case to remove a binder full of papers. As she opens the binder, Howard recognizes his own childish handwriting on some of the pages. “You remember Mr. Haywood, the genealogist.”  


“We do,” Howard assures her. Vince, leaning back against the dressing table, heedless of the bottles and jars he’s disturbing, has been rendered speechless. “Remember, Vince? He took that DNA swab from you. For the database.”  


“He did indeed,” Ms. Fleming verifies. She lifts a neatly typed page from the front of the binder. “And here we have a result.”  


“A. . .?” is all Vince could manage.  


“We got a match. After three decades, someone came forward to identify herself as a relative of the family whose plane went down in Johannesburg. The DNA confirms it.” Ms. Fleming offers the page to Vince. “Vincent, you have a cousin and a name. Or, I suppose I should say, another name to add to your already substantial one.”  


“I have a cousin.” Vince can’t bear to touch the proffered page. “I have a family.”  


“A third family,” Howard reminds him. “Besides the Ferrys and the Moons. Do you want to take that, Vince?” He elbows Vince in the ribs, gesturing to the page.  


“I have a cousin.” Vince seems immobilized.  


Howard takes the page instead and gives it a quick perusal, then glances at Vince and looks down at the page again. “It’s verified. Ninety-nine percent match. You have a cousin named Gabrielle Caron. She’s seventeen and lives in Manchester with her parents, Shirley and Marcus.”  


“She was writing her family tree for her history class. That gave her the idea to search for Marcus’ missing brother Matthew.”  


“Matthew Caron,” Howard marvels. “Vince, your father’s name is Matthew Caron.”  


“Well, she stirred up quite the hornets’ nest,” Ms. Fleming continues. “The Caron family had disowned Matthew. A bad seed, they said, in trouble from the day he was born. When he got involved with drug dealing, they threw him out of the house. He called them once, to say that he’d gotten married and his wife was expecting a baby.”  


“Me,” Vince guesses.  


“You. Your mother was just sixteen and had run away from home to be with Matthew. The Carons aren’t positive that they actually married; Matt was a charming liar, or thought he was, anyway. Her name was Sara Cartwright.”  


“Sara and Matthew Caron. I’m Vince Caron. And I have a cousin, Gabrielle. And,” he glances at Ms. Fleming for confirmation, “an auntie and an uncle, Shirley and Marcus, in Manchester.” He grins. “My people are from Manchester.”  


“And before that, France, for some of them,” Ms. Fleming says. “But you can meet with Gabrielle and review her research, if you like. She’s quite keen on meeting you. They had assumed you all were dead, after decades of no contact. By the way, Matthew named you for Gene Vincent, the American singer, you know, ‘Be-Bop-a-Lula’? According to your uncle, that was Matthew and Sara’s special song.”  


“How did they get from Manchester to South Africa?” Howard wonders.  


“Well, according to Marcus, Matthew had been taking flying lessons as a young man. He intended to join the RAF, but they wouldn’t accept him with his criminal record, even after he acquired an NPPL license. He then hoped to pursue a commercial license, but he figured out he could make a lot of money fast by smuggling drugs across national borders. When he became involved with a minor crime lord, Marcus lost touch with him. Voluntarily, on both sides, it seems.”  


“My dad was a drug smuggler.” Vince will need time, lots of it, to let this news sink in. “And possibly my mother.”  


“Your _dad_ ,” Howard interrupted firmly, “is a respected musician and a fine, loving man.”  


“Yeah.” Vince’s lips quiver. “Yeah, he is.”  


A PA raps on the door and pokes her head inside. “Ten minutes, Vince.”  


“With a name to go on, I did a quick search of the newspaper archives again. I found nothing about Matthew or Sara, but quite a bit on the crime lord, Malvolio Keres. It’s in the binder there. A policeman friend of mine”--the way she blushes as she says that makes Vince think the friend is more than a casual acquaintance--”tells me that through informal channels the authorities learned of a young pilot who tried to steal a shipment of cocaine from Keres. The plane and the pilot went missing and were never recovered.”  


“Probably disposed of by Keres. I’ve heard of him; he was a bad, bad dude,” Howard supplies. “But Scotland Yard caught up with him and he died in prison.”  


The PA is back. “Five minutes, Vince.”  


“I, erm, I have to. . .” Vince gestures to the hallway.  


Ms. Fleming stands. “Of course. I apologize for keeping you so long.”  


Howard offers her his arm. “Perhaps you would enjoy watching the show from the audience, and Vince can join us after? Today’s guests are Dame Kate Bush and Russell Brand.”  


“Certainly.”  


Vince nods. “I, ah, thank you, Ms. Fleming. I owe you a great deal.”  


“She’s in town, you know.” Ms. Fleming pauses in the doorway. “Gabrielle. She was hoping—she’s at my home. I would be delighted to have you all for dinner this evening, if you can make it.” She winks at Howard as she takes his arm. “I really must see how this story turns out.” They stroll away.  


“Vincent Caron,” Vince stares into the mirror, checking his makeup. “Vincent Caron Noir-Ferry-Moon.”  


“Ready, Vince?” the PA holds the door open for him.  


“I have a name,” he blinks at her. “In fact, I have five of them.”  


“Huh?” 

\---  
SOMETIME IN THE FUTURE: 

_**Bryan Ferry Knighted by Queen at Buckingham Palace.** _

_The British music star has been knighted by Queen in a ceremony at Buckingham Palace. Bryan Ferry became Sir Bryan for his services to British pop music and his work in raising money for human rights and child welfare charities. After his investiture, Ferry said, “This is an incredible honor.”  
_

_Sir Bryan, known for his sophisticated fashion and elegant voice, was attired in morning dress designed by Jean Claude Jacquettie, Jr. His five sons accompanied the singer to watch him kneel before the Queen and be dubbed on each shoulder with the investiture sword.  
_

_Once described by Peter York as “an art object that should hang in the Tate,” Bryan Ferry has made a career spanning five decades and boasting 30 million in album sales._  
\--BBC News  
\---  


Vince barely hears the introductions that Ms. Fleming makes. He stands there, in the 1970s-style gray and blue chrome-and-glass living room—any other day, the décor would have fascinated him and prompted a discussion with the little house’s owner—and openly gapes at the sandy-haired teen with big blue eyes and diamond-shaped face. Her cheekbones are sharp, her chin strong and stubborn, the bones in her arms and legs birdlike. All these features capture Vince and draw him in, but more than anything, it’s the v-shaped, bashful grin that makes him start: that’s his grin, mirrored back at him. Only her button nose isn’t familiar (thankfully). She’s staring too. “You look like me, except the hair,” she says; he answers, “Like a mirror image. I dye my hair.” They initially reach out to shake hands, but the hands aren’t shaking, just clasping. “Gabrielle Caron,” he tests her name, hoping that some bell of recognition will ring for him, but it doesn’t. It doesn’t really need to: all he has to do is look at her to know they’re family.  


“Vince Noir,” she challenges him back. A cloud passes over her face but promptly lifts, and she explains, “I know you. I mean, not _know_ know, but I’ve seen you. Your show. On telly.”  


A hundred questions bubble up; he releases one without giving order to the others. “Your father, does he look like us?”  


Off to the side, Ms. Fleming links her arm through Howard’s. “Let’s leave them alone. Come along, I’ll put you to work in the kitchen.”  


An hour later, when Ms. Fleming and Howard return to the living room to announce dinner, they find the cousins bent over a photo album. “That’s my dad’s mum and dad.” She’s pointing to a photo.  


“My grandparents.”  


“They’re deceased now, but I have memories of them and lots more photos at home. I don’t have any of Matthew or Sally; I think Dad might’ve destroyed them. But I visited Dad’s secondary school and they let me go through the student newspapers.” She turns a page in the album. “I found this.”  


“Striker Matt Caron scored the winning goal against Ibstock last night. He believes the Red Raiders will go all the way this year.”  


Vince touches the photocopied page. “He has my nose.” He glances up at Howard. “Nobody has a nose like mine; he has to be family. He played football. I bet he had those big beefy drummers too.”  


“We’ll go to Manchester for our holiday next year,” Howard assures him.  
Vince returns his attention to Gabrielle. “What else?”  


“Now that we have a name to go on, everything!” Ms. Fleming interjects. “Parish registers, the BMD Index, school records. . . .”  


“We three can go back to the library next week and begin,” Howard suggests.  


“I have my father’s birth certificate and my parents’ marriage certificate with me, if you’d like to see them.” Gabrielle reopens her album and Vince bends his head beside hers.  


Vince half-hears Ms. Fleming murmur something to Howard; those two retreat again as Gabrielle is reviewing her family vacation photos. When Ms. Fleming and Howard brink in trays of hot food to set on the coffee table, Gabrielle spreads her hands in the air. “There’s so much to tell you, Vince! I’m getting it all jumbled. You’re just going to have to come up to Manchester for a weekend. Can you?”  


Hope underlines his reply. “I’d like to. If your parents wouldn’t mind?”  


“Of course not. I mean, they aren’t keen on talking about Uncle Matt, but I’m sure they’ll come around, once they meet you.” She claps a hand over her mouth to suppress a giggle. “They’re going to find this massively amazing. They’ve been watching your show for ages, and they have no idea!” She wiggles across the couch to throw her arms around him. “I never knew I had a cousin!”  


“We’re the only ones then,” Vince surmises. “No brothers or sisters? No cousins on your mother’s side?”  


“No. Made it kind of lonely on family picnic days.”  


“Well, we’ll make sure those picnics are less lonely from now on. If it’s okay with your parents.”  


“It will be. They let me come here, under Ms. Fleming’s supervision, of course. They just didn’t want me to have unrealistic expectations, in case you weren’t interested in meeting me.”  


Vince spreads his hands. “Expect all you want. How long can you stay in London?”  


“Just for the weekend.”  


“If you like, me and Howard could take you around. Whatever you’re interested in: galleries, museums, the zoo; I could show you the studio. I want to get to know you, and introduce you to my side of the family. Through Howard I have sisters, a mother, nieces and nephews; through Bryan I have a father, stepbrothers, grandparents. And now, thanks to one curious college student, I have a cousin and auntie and uncle. It’s an entire world!”  


“The party,” Howard prompts.  


“Oh! Yeah!” Vince’s eyes twinkle. “Tomorrow night, me and Howard and my stepbrothers are throwing a party for Bryan. He just got a knighthood from the Queen. It’s going to be a lavish bash; canapes and celebrities all over the place! You’ll have so much fun! If you want to come, that is.”  


Now her eyes dance. “I’d love to, but--” she gestures to the jeans and jumper she’s wearing and shrugs.  


He catches on immediately. “Just when I thought the day couldn’t get any brighter. Cousin, you’re talking my native language. You and me and Howard are going shopping.”  


Howard shakes his head. “Ms. Fleming, I make it a rule to never step between a man and his shopping bags. Perhaps you would be so kind as to grant me a sliver of your time tomorrow? I have two tickets for a retrospective of German expressionist cinema.”  


“I would enjoy that,” Ms. Fleming says.  


Vince winks at his cousin. “The day just keeps getting better and better.”  
\---  


Vince is still jabbering as they climb into bed. His speech, typically Vince, has no filter; thoughts come with no organization or higher meaning attached. Howard has been listening to the ramblings of his husband for four hours straight; the dark circles under his eyes should be a clue to Vince that it’s time to quit talking, but Vince is on an information high. Howard lets him ramble. To some extent, he shares in the excitement: it has been his search too. He doesn’t mind at all that they will now have a dozen new names to add to their Christmas card list.  


Vince suddenly stops talking. He rests against his propped pillows, strokes Kadaway’s ears and stares into space. Howard recognizes that stare: any minute now Vince will pop out of bed and trot off to the guest bedroom, which they usually use as an art/music studio. He will paint until dawn—he’s recently finished a portrait of Bryan in his morning coat, to be presented at tomorrow night’s party, so probably this effort will be some abstract representing his overpowering feelings concerning today’s news. Vince seldom paints real objects, the occasional family portrait being the exception; rather, he paints emotions, in the form of fantastic creatures. Howard sometimes jokes that if Vince had been drawn to filmmaking instead, he would have produced Godzilla and King Kong films.  


But Vince doesn’t pop up; he just keeps staring. Kadaway lets himself be used for petting purposes (Howard has suggested that one of these days, they should take the dog for training as a therapy animal). Vince keeps petting and staring, long after Howard has drifted into sleep, despite that fact that they have a big, busy day tomorrow. Tomorrow and the next day and the next, big days, full of family. So many people to see, so many places to be.  


Marriage certificates, photos, newspaper articles, birth certificates, death certificates, baptismal records, adoption records: these are objects that make his history, now known (or certain to be known soon), concrete and permanent, just as his paintings make his emotions concrete. A name, now known, to link him to father, mother, grandparents, and on and on back into days beyond the reach of certificates. If there are children to come—and smirking down at the innocently dozing Howard, the certainty forms in Vince’s imagination that there will be children; he will begin to paint them tonight, to dream them into life—when the children come they will have names and certificates and family legends to tie them, too, to Ferrys and Moons and Carons.  
Vince slides out of bed to go paint.


End file.
